


why regret what cannot be?

by fillertexted



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13204179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillertexted/pseuds/fillertexted
Summary: and he writes,i still love this,and he thinks,i still love you,and he grieves, and he grieves, and he grieves.





	why regret what cannot be?

**Author's Note:**

> not explicit, but i hint at it Very obviously and openly. its way out of my comfort zone, so hopefully it doesnt sound like Ultimate Virgin Writing. trying something new just before the new year and all. kinda based off my own experiences, mostly not. trying to make my writing Not terrible, so if you have any suggestions i want to hear em. thanks for reading.
> 
> also enj is trans and r is nb you cant take that away from me lol
> 
> and hey. its been a while.

In hindsight, it all seemed inevitable.

They had circled around each other for so long, that the resulting collision was messy, hot, _wild;_ categorized more in hands that seem to brand flushed skin, insistent lips, on beds, couches, against walls, in the back seats of cars; anywhere and everywhere than anything else.

All things that begin messy and with a hushed and choked, “yes, _pleasepleaseplease,_ ” are bound to explode.

Together, they're a blue giant, burning big and hot and chaotic in their feverish ardour, but apart, they break into a supernova, bright in its intensity; curses that were once muffled in bruised shoulders now are flung out without care, gazes that once burned with passion only hold the smoldering remains of past lust, bodies taut and angry.

He doesn’t even remember what he had been yelling, no, _screaming_.

It had seemed so important at the time, as though the Earth would’ve fallen off its axis if he hadn’t gotten the words out, as though the world would've been ripped right out from under him, as though he would’ve been too furious to function, reduced to incoherent words and shouts.

No, he had said something he doesn’t want to remember, all to get a sick satisfaction at a shattered look, a heartbroken look, a _betrayed_ look.

 

-0-

 

His heart aches.

He breathes.

 

-0-

 

He remembers their time together in quick snatches of time, feeling as though he had stolen it, somehow. A fond smile; a hand, gently, reverently, brushing a lock of hair from his face; twin heartbeats that race in the dark, twined in rhythm and love; tender kisses against his lips, his cheeks, his temples, his _being_ ; quiet words that echoed quiet love, quiet adoration, quiet realizations.

He remembers their time _before_ , an important distinction, as disjointed and dissonant. Boisterous laughter ringing in his ears before scathing comments, barbed and poisonous, designed to gain his attention and keep it; angry, bitter comments spat between them like tiny landmines, any ready to detonate at the drop of a hat; quick glances that were often reciprocated; stilted conversations; coffee; surprised laughter that cuts off prematurely; midnight conversations; a chilly night and a warm presence; dizzying words combined with breathless actions.

He remembers. He wishes he did not.

He continues on, ignoring the concerned looks, the angry looks, the looks in general. He ignores the tiptoeing around the subject of _them_ , about how _yes, they’re broken up, no, it doesn’t mean they can’t be in the same room together._ He ignores most things besides his work, his vision, his justice. He balances his time between school and his club. He ignores Combeferre and Courfeyrac pointedly putting food and drinks and once, memorably, a stack of dog pictures atop his piles and piles of work.

He ignores it, them, himself, _everything,_ because what else is there to do?

He had stood up one day, maybe days or weeks or months or years _after_ , and his knees had given out. He had dropped; chin hitting the table and everything else hitting the floor. There hadn’t been many of his friends with him at the time, his angry ( _devestatedangonizedsad_ ) brooding a loud presence no one was quite sure how to handle, but the room had exploded in chaos the second he was on the ground. He remembers Joly.

He remembers seeing him hesitate, just for a second, eyes wide as he stood up and _hesitated_ , before rushing over, gentle hands he barely feels and gentle words he doesn't hear. He feels disconnected as he stares up at Joly's eyes, at the bright light that's shone into his eyes, and thinks.

He notices the way Courfeyrac is kneeling next to him, holding his hand, but the way Bahorel is standing off to the side, concerned but still standing, still holding his drink. He notices Jehan, delicate ink stained fingers and wrists trembling, tapping on their phone as fast as they can, eyes darting back to him at every wait and pause, but the way Combeferre is just staring at him, unmoving.

Joly pats his face, once, still with gentle hands, and calls his name softly, so softly, but it's like a gunshot. His thoughts are loud, and one is the loudest. It seems to ricochet in his mind, as he looks at everyone gathered.

He realizes, in that moment, their fighting had created divisions within the group.

 

-0-

 

His heart aches.

He breathes.

 

-0-

 

It had made it back to _them_ , of course it did. It'd been barely half an hour, yet he managed to attract every member who had some free time to check up on his pathetic, pitiful self. It's not as though he'd done anything serious. Sleep deprivation and dehydration, that's normal for him. Perhaps before it hadn't been because he can't sleep at night without them, and how he sometimes just stares at nothing and cries and cries until he can't feel himself, but that happens to everyone, right?

He had expected them to keep their maintained cool distance, maybe a disinterested ‘are you okay?’ from them as they entered the Musain, maybe even a mocking laugh as they made a beeline towards him, as they pulled him up from his chair.

He’d been surprised by a hug, warm and tender and that filled a hole he didn’t know existed. It’s over nearly as soon as it’s started, he hadn't even had time to hug back, yet they had pulled away anyway, had scanned his face. They had given him a good shake, hands warm against his shoulders, and said _don’t fucking do that again, you idiot_ , and he had felt like he was filled with light and love and warmth and the feeling of being _right_ and _whole_ again, chest cracking, spilling over as the waves of emotions overwhelmed him—

But they had stepped back. They stepped back, towards _him_ , towards Combeferre. They slipped their hand into _his_. They had said _please, Enjolras, don’t do that again_ and he had been blindsided. He had nodded, or said some sort of affirmation, or maybe his face had said all they needed to know. He doesn’t remember past the static that had filled him, consumed him, at the sight of them together. At the hands that fit together better than theirs ever seemed to. At how they had called him "Enjolras" and not one of their terrible nicknames.

 

-0-

 

His heart aches.

He breathes.

Probably.

(They called him _Enjolras._ )

 

-0-

 

He still follows them on Tumblr. Still goes back to their blog, just to see what they had posted, just to _see_. They don’t use it much, anymore. He knows they only started because he asked them to, so he could have at least a handful of notes on his posts, so he could support his partner when they decided to post art, so they could have a Thing together, capital T. And it’s stupid, it really is, but he keeps doing it anyways. He finds himself just looking at it, sometimes. On his phone, he just brings it up sometimes. Just to look, just to _see_.

He doesn’t remember what he had been looking for specifically on their blog, but he’s on his phone, bringing up the search, and he feels his heart lurch and stop. His tag, the tag they had created one night when they had been together, twined and existing in contentment and sleepy adoration, in breathless love and soft touches, in whispered endearments they had laughed at, is still there. Their most used tag. He looks. He _sees_.

 _Ange_.

 

-0-

 

His heart _aches._

He stutters over a breath.

 

-0-

 

He’s fine. He repeats it to anyone who asks.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’s fine he’s fine he’s fine he’sfinehe’sfinehe’sfinehe’she'sfinehe'sfinehe’sfinehe'sfinefinehe'sfinehe'sfinehe'sfinehe’sfinehe’s _fine_.

Don’t worry about him, he’s fine!

What? Of course he’s fine.

He’s doing just fine.

He’s fine, thanks for asking.

Fine.

 

-0-

 

His heart aches.

He holds his breath.

_angeangeangeangeange—_

 

-0-

 

He watches them together. Only ever in ways he can explain as being candid, to anyone who asks. To himself.

He watches, in glimpses and stolen moments and sometimes outright staring. He just, looks. They are sweet, loving. Doting, one might say. He watches _them_ the most.

They sit on _his_ lap, sometimes. They giggle, sometimes. Their face turns a pale pink, sometimes. They smile shyly sometimes, face turned towards _him_ with such an open expression that his chest clenches, sometimes.

He’s not jealous. He’s fine.

He watches them together. There’s a pang of _something_ deep within him, but he can’t identify it. He just knows it’s burrowing into his stomach, making it feel heavy and unsettled. He can't shake it, and feels it grow the more he watches.

He watches them together, staring this time, trying to figure out _whywhywhy_ and then he's finally, finally caught. They glance over, and send him a bemused look, curious but not concerned. A word, and _he_ looks over too, an eyebrow politely raised, a small smile. They were best friends, Combeferre and him. They _are_ best friends. Why does his heart suddenly feel like it's filled with fury so bright he needs to take a breath? He smiles back at them, _both_ of them. He hopes it’s a smile. He doesn't let his gaze linger long enough to see the response. He looks down the paper that's in his hands, looking for solace, but the letters are blurred smudges of ink, indecipherable. He didn't expect any different. He glances up again. They’ve already turned their attention back to _him._ They have a look on their face, so familiar he can't help but stare, just trying to _remember_. It hits him.

He feels his stomach drop.

They look like they’re in love.

 

-0-

 

He can no longer feel his heart.

He doesn’t remember how to breathe.

He’s _empty_.

 

-0-

 

He’s scrolling through Twitter, looking for someone to argue with, looking for facts, looking for a distraction, looking for something to fill his head with meaningless thoughts and meaningless words. He halfheartedly scrolls past news articles, not even bothering to look at the comments. Despite wanting something to actually focus on, he knows any argument he would try to start would fall flat. He scrolls down his Twitter home page, only skimming the tweets. He's glad tweets have a character limit; it helps at times like this. He sees that Courfeyrac retweeted a photo, and doesn't recognize what it is for a second. When he does though, oh, when he does. He feels his heart jolt inside his chest, his eyes widen, his mind goes blank.

They’ve posted a picture, an old picture of him and them, together. His mouth is curved in a small smile, face turned towards them like they’re the sun, eyes attracted to their blinding brilliance, unable to look away. Their eyes are closed, radiant grin gracing their features, arm slung across his shoulders. There's a bottle of cheap beer in one hand, lifted in a lazy toast to someone out of frame. They’ve captioned it _a wild time in my life_ _#tbt #someregrets_ and he cannot _unsee_ the fact that they decided to post this, that they tagged it with _some regrets_ , that it’s the photo that’s still his lockscreen. The tweet gets blurry, and starts to shake.

He’s crying.

He retweets it, though, adds his own caption. And he writes, _I still love this_ , and he thinks, _I still love you_ , and he grieves, and he grieves, and he grieves.

**Author's Note:**

> not betad, barely reread. i just got so excited to write this ya feel? yeah. sorry. 
> 
> please comment? even if its just the letter 'a' 28 times ill feel so Good about myself. thanks if you do, thanks if you dont. 
> 
> [fillertexted](http://fillertexted.tumblr.com) (writing n hamilton blog) or [derritaire](http://derritaire.tumblr.com) (les mis blog)


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